


You Don't Have to Stay

by IrLaimsaAraLath



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amputation, Blood, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 05:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12764262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrLaimsaAraLath/pseuds/IrLaimsaAraLath
Summary: A prompt from @theagelesswanderer on Tumblr of:  You don't have to stay forever.  I would understand.Cullen and human Inquisitor, Caitlin.





	You Don't Have to Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Set just at the end of Trespasser.

Let’s imagine that Cullen  _ didn’t _ get a chance to propose  _ before _ the Inquisitor lost her arm.  For, uh, reasons.

  
  


No one would tell Cullen exactly what had happened, only that  _ something _ had and that Caitlin needed him.  He’d managed to make it through the vast lengths of hallways and small chambers of the Winter Palace at no more than a brisk stride, clinging to some semblance of self-restraint, until he entered the short passage that led to the secluded wing that housed the infirmary.  He’d taken no more than three steps before her scream shattered the air, rebounding along the marble floors to hit him squarely in the center of his chest.  The sound made every inch of his skin go cold, and he was running before he’d had time to fully process what he’d heard.  A few nobles were milling about in the hallway directly outside the infirmary, and he shouldered through them roughly and without apology as he burst through the door.  What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

 

Most of her body was hidden beneath Bull’s as he laid across her legs, arms folded over her hips to hold her down, while Blackwall was braced down on both of her shoulders.  He caught only glimpses of her face, her normally tanned skin ashen, violet eyes wide and wild with pain and fear, and her crimson hair stringy and plastered to her brow and cheeks with sweat and blood.  Every time she managed to catch her breath, she wailed, the sound long and wretched between panting sobs.  Her marked hand and the arm attached to it were managed, draped off the side of the table where she lay, and an ever-growing pool of blood was spreading across the floor beneath it.  His mouth was suddenly dry, and he felt like he was shaking all over.  Maybe he was.  He started toward her with determined strides, but Cassandra put herself in his way.  

 

Without thought and with his hands on her upper arms, he forcibly moved the Seeker aside.  He was single-minded, focused, and he didn’t even realize Cassandra had been speaking to him until both she and Krem caught him and drug him a few steps back.  His temper flared hot, hardening his eyes and calling a dark flush to his cheeks as he finally acknowledged the Seeker with an impatient glare.  “What?  What is it?”  A glance was passed between Krem and Cassandra, and the latter frowned at Cullen.  “You need to listen.  It’s the mark.  She no longer has it, but its removal has...damaged her arm...beyond repair.  We need to amputate it to save her life, but…”  The Seeker shook her head as she stared meaningfully up at Cullen, waiting for understanding to dawn on the man.  Slowly, so slowly, it began to, and it drained the color from his face as he looked away from his captors to Caitlin.  

 

“But, she won’t let you,” he finally said, never taking his eyes off of Caitlin.  Cassandra nodded at Krem, and they both loosened their hold on Cullen, and he stood there dazedly for a moment before he spoke again.  “And you’re certain it can’t be…”  The Seeker shook her head, murmuring a reluctant  _ Yes, we’re certain _ .  The Commander nodded and pushed between them.  He drew up behind Blackwall, and a hand on his shoulder moved the other man.  Cullen took his place, laying his arm aside hers to fix his grip on her forearm.  She blindly clutched at the offered arm, fingers digging in as he leaned his weight on her shoulder.  Her eyes immediately snapped over to him and, for the first time since he’d arrived, some manner of coherence settled over her.  Her screaming had left her hoarse, and she clenched her hand on him painfully as she tried to speak.  “Solas...it was Solas.  The orb, the Breach, my-,” and her words broke off into a fractured cry as a crackle of energy sizzled along her skin, green glowing veins that webbed from beneath her collar to stroke the base of her throat.

 

He couldn’t even begin to keep the sorrow from his eyes, the anguish.  All he could do was nod, saying, “We’ll deal with him later, love.  Right now, we need to see to you.”  She was still yanking at her bloodied arm when the surgeon looked over at Cullen and quietly said, “This needs to be done now.  She doesn’t hav-,” and a stern look from the Commander silenced the man.  “Don’t let them take it, Cullen,” Caitlin was whispering, the bulk of her voice lost to the screaming.  Over and over, she begged, “Please” and “Don’t.”  The former Templar had to look up for a moment, away, else the tears gathering in his eyes would surely fall.  He found Dorian with the brief glance, the Altus standing only a few feet away, stricken and tense with both worry and anger.  A jerk of Cullen’s chin brought him over, and he leaned to whisper something into the mage’s ear.  Dorian nodded in return, a grim expression settling on his dark features.  

 

“Listen, Cait.  Listen to me,” Cullen said, releasing her shoulder so that he could take her chin in hand.  The Altus held her shoulders to give the Commander this opportunity, and the Inquisitor was helpless but to let her head be turned.  She stared up at him, and he pushed her hair back from her brow.  “We have to do this, Cait.  Otherwise, you won’t survive...and if  _ you _ don’t survive, I’m not sure  _ I _ will, either,” he struggled to say, his voice thick with emotion -- fear, guilt -- as he rested his palm against her cheek.  “No,” she pleaded, squirming beneath the hands that held her, but her waning energy had stolen the fight from the effort.  “Please, Cullen,” was her final plea, tears rolling back from the corners of her eyes and into her hairline.  “I know you trust me, Cait.  Close your eyes,” he asked, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.  “Close your eyes.  It’ll be alright.”  With a shuddering breath, she did as she was told, and Cullen nodded at Dorian.  Tendrils of magic seeped from his fingertips as they rose to her temples, and her muscles immediately went slack as she fell into unconsciousness.

 

Cullen never let go of her arm and didn’t bother to wipe away the tears that had fallen on his cheeks as he looked to the surgeon and spoke with tense sorrow.  

 

“Do it.”

 

*

Sometime during his ceaseless vigil, Cullen had finally fallen asleep.  Stretched out in a ridiculously large Orleasian armchair, his elbow was braced on its arm and his head had fallen into his upturned hand.  His other hand rested limply in his lap, and his mabari had squirmed its way beneath one of his legs so that it dangled while the other was fully extended.  An entire day had passed, and Caitlin still had not woken; Cullen had asked Dorian to check at least half a dozen times to make sure that she wasn’t still under the effects of his spell.  The Altus humored him in a way that was rare, without sarcasm and without mirth, in a demonstration that he knew what it was that Cullen and Caitlin had lost.  Once resigned to the knowledge that waiting was all that could be done, that is exactly what he did.  

 

At times, he sat quietly in the chair, elbows on his knees as he watched the slow rise and fall of her chest.  Other times, he paced back and forth at the foot of the bed, each measured step accompanied by a doubt, a question.  What could he have done differently?  Would it have made a difference if he’d been with her?  Where was Solas?  If he ever found the answer to that question, it would be the last thing the elf would ever have to worry about.  Still other times found him on his knees at her bedside, her hand clasped in both of his, forehead resting against her knuckles.  And, he prayed.  

 

But, now...now he slept.  It was dreamless and light, the kind of sleep that left half of the mind wakeful, listening for any hint of a disturbance.  What roused him, however, was not a noise, but a nudge.  His mabari had wriggled from beneath his leg and was bumping his head against Cullen’s knee.  Despite trying to ignore it, the addition of a whine to the prodding pulled amber eyes open as he shushed the insistent creature.  But once the dog had his attention, it plodded over to the bedside and stared over the edge.  Cullen followed the creature’s gaze and found Caitlin’s eyes fluttering fitfully as a frail noise escaped her lips.  He was on his feet so quickly the chair was pushed back several inches, and it took only a single step to bring him within reach of her.  Pulling her hand into his, he sat carefully on the edge of the bed, knee bent as he leaned to cup his hand beneath her jaw.  

 

She was warm, no longer chilled by blood loss, and her skin had regained a rosy blush that had settled in her cheeks.  Lifting her hand, he pressed his lips against her knuckles, and finally, her eyes blinked open and her head fell aside draw her gaze down on him.  Her sight seemed unfocused, and a few more bats of her lids narrowed her vision on him.  The ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and her fingers curled on his.  “Cullen,” she said, voice small and hoarse, his name uttered as if to be sure he was real and not a figment of her imagination.  His breath left him all at once, half sigh, half huff of grateful laughter, and he nodded at her as he pressed her open palm against his unshaven cheek.  “I’m here.  Maker, you had me worried,” he said in a rush, brushing his lips to her knuckles again, struggling against the compulsion to kiss her lips, her brow, her eyelids.  

 

She murmured groggily, shifting as if trying to sit herself up against the headboard, but the motion only threw her off-balance as her weight shifted to an arm that was no longer there to support her.  Only his grip on her arm held her upright, and a flash of panic washed over her features, draining the color from her cheeks.  “Cullen?”  It was a question, a plea for an explanation as she turned her widened eyes to him.  He had already drawn her closer to keep her upright, and he pulled her the rest of the way into his arms before her first tear fell.  One arm curled around her waist as the other climbed into her hair, and she said his name again, her desperation evident in the anguish of her voice and the frantic clutch of her hand in his shirt.  She was shaking against him, and he couldn’t be certain if it was shock or sobs or both, but he was holding her tightly, as if trying to absorb her pain through touch.  

 

“It’s alright, Cait,” he said into her hair, against her ear, and he could feel the warmth of her tears soaking through cotton covering his shoulder.   _ It’s real. _  That phrase, over and over, she repeated, each utterance more forlorn than the last.  Her grief was his, and it tore at his insides, constricted around his heart like a vice, and there was nothing...absolutely  _ nothing _ ...he could do to make it better.  And, so he held her, rocked her gently for a length of time he lost track of, until her sobs quieted to muffled weeping then to shuddering breaths chased by tears that had slowed to a trickle.  Her cheek was turned against his shoulder, her mouth near his neck, and the deep breath she took chilled the tear-damp collar of his shirt.  They sat in complete silence for a very long time, with only the sounds of their breaths and the soft rustle of fabric to remind them that shock had not rendered them deaf.

 

Her fingers twisted in his shirt, and beneath his hands, she grew tense.  He felt it come over her in increments until at last she let her fingers fall away.  Her voice was almost hollow when she spoke, “You don’t have to stay.”  While he didn’t move, her words shot ice through him, every nerve trembling as if unable to absorb the shock.  “I would understand.  This isn’t what yo-...isn’t how it was supposed to be,” she said with a trembling breath, and he could feel beneath his hand the tension that bunched the muscles in her neck.  He drew back from her then, one hand heavy on her shoulder as the other molded to the side of her face, fingers bent along her jaw and over her ear as he held her with gentle strength.  “You listen to me, Caitlin Alexandra Trevelyan,” he began, his voice stern but choked with emotion.  “My place is at your side.  I will go  _ anywhere _ that may take me, and I will  _ not _ have it otherwise.”  

 

She still wasn't looking at him, her eyes cast down and away.  “How can you say that?” she asked, the words lost and desolate as she glanced at her missing arm.  “I…”  Bitter tears welled in her eyes, and she sucked in a harsh breath through her teeth.  “You deserve someone who can hold you, Cullen.  Someone  _ whole _ .”  The sound he made was indelicate and incredulous, and he firmly pulled her face up, though her eyes fell aside to avoid his gaze.  “We're going to sit here until you look at me.”  Stubbornly, she sat unmoving, and just as obstinate, he stared at her, his fingers tight on her chin.  A whisper of a sigh parted her lips, and she reluctantly lifted her eyes to his, and the intensity of his gaze stole her breath.  

 

“With all that has passed between us...the nightmares you’ve seen me through, the doubts you’ve silenced,” his voice was low, rough, and he swept a broad thumb over her cheek as his fingers slid into her hair.  “After all the times I have asked you how you could love someone so  _ broken _ , only to be assured that you would spend the rest of our lives proving to me that I wasn’t,” he said, head canting when her eyes momentarily fell, but he easily recaptured her gaze.  “And  _ you’re _ going to say  _ that _ to  _ me _ ?”  Abashed, she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and let her weight sag into his steady grip as she closed her eyes.  When she failed to respond, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers.  His fingers curled tenderly in the hair above her ear as his thumb stroked her cheek.  “Marry me, Caitlin.  And let me spend the rest of our lives proving how perfect you are,” he said, leaning back just enough to find her eyes, now opened wide and taken back, before he finished, “and how easy I am to hold with only one arm.”  

 

An awkward smile tugged at one side of his mouth, pulling at the scar on his upper lip, and her eyes flashed back and forth over his as her brow knitted.  His hand in her hair pulled her in, and he set his mouth against hers and whispered, “ _ Marry me _ ,” before he brushed a kiss along her upper lip, repeated the words, then swept another across her bottom lip.  She made a fragile sound, a high-pitched mewl, as he captured her lips in a full, but soft kiss, which she deepened when she wrapped her arm over his shoulder and curled her fingers to clutch at the nape of his neck.  Always at her command, he held her tighter, closer, and poured himself into the embrace of his mouth on hers.  All of the fear that the past day had held, the sorrow and the relief, the love that never wavered, only grew, and every beat of his heart.  It was hers.  He was hers.  And, though he was breathless when he pulled back, he asked a very simple question:  “Yes?”  He could hear the smile in her voice, felt the curve of her lips as she committed the answer to his lips, each of his cheeks, his brow -- each kiss was accompanied by a single ardent word:  “Yes.”


End file.
